When it was over, they lay tangled together for a long, silent time, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync. No words were spoken about what had just happened. They simply held each other, skin to skin, letting the aftershocks fade. Then they dressed in silence, went out for their last dinner in London, and laughed and talked as if they were still just two friends enjoying the city - though both of them knew nothing would ever be the same.
The trip came to an end for both. Fadi dropped her off at the airport, since he was leaving later that night. They hugged, looked into each others eyes and for a brief moment slowly started to move in for a kiss, but stopped at the last second, as if they had both simultaneously remembers the rules. What happened in that hotel room stayed in that hotel room. They were now just two friends saying goodbye.
He returned to Paris, she went back to Toronto. Once they were back to their daily lives, their communication grew quieter. The calls became shorter, the texts less frequent. And there was no more phone sex. Both of them were quietly processing what had happened in that London hotel room - joy, guilt, longing, and the painful knowledge that their lives were still bound by duty, family, faith, and distance. And of course they both knew that they would never meet again.
Three months passed. One ordinary Tuesday morning, Fadi opened his email. There was a message from Amani with no subject line. He opened it. Inside were a series of photos.
The first few showed her smiling in various beautiful spots around Paris - standing in front of the Eiffel Tower at sunset, walking along the Seine with the wind in her hair, sitting at a café with a book and a glass of wine. She looked radiant, alive, free.
Then the photos changed.
Amani in an elegant hotel room, slowly stripping out of her clothes - first her blouse, then her skirt, then her bra and panties. Amani posing naked in front of a full-length mirror, one hand cupping her breast, the other between her thighs. Amani on the bed on all fours, looking back at the camera with pure seduction in her eyes. Amani lying on her back, legs spread wide.
The final photo was different. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, completely naked, with her legs apart, her fingers teasing her glistening pussy. That beautiful vagina that he had not penetrated that day. The picture looked almost like an invitation to reconsider that decision. She was looking straight into the lens with a small, knowing, and utterly confident smile. Below it was a single line of text and a phone number:
"I just moved to Paris. For good. Come and get me. I'm yours."
Fadi stared at the screen for a long time, his heart hammering with the intoxicating and overwhelming desire he had felt that final night in London, and all the months preceding that fateful day.
He picked up his phone and dialled. This time, there was no safety net left.